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Sunday, September 22, 2013

Colonel Bill
Darby, the creator and driving spirit of “Darby’s Rangers,” a founding father of
today’s Special Forces and Army’s 75th Ranger Regiment, was one of
the truly legendary small unit combat commanders to emerge from World War II.
When the war began he was an obscure captain of artillery and a general’s aide,
or ‘dog-catcher’. By its end he was a full Colonel and Assistant Division
commander of the famous 10th Mountain Division.

Darby was born on
February 8, 1911 at Fort Smith, Arkansas, and graduated in the middle of his West Point class (177/346) in June 1933. He was
commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the Field Artillery and served in a
succession of field, staff and school assignments typical for a young officer
during the interwar years.

While acting as an
escort officer in Europe, he attracted the
attention of Col. Lucian K. Truscott, Jr., who was forming an American
commando-type unit and looking for the right man to command it. Truscott
interviewed the young artillery officer and was impressed with Darby’s
credentials, especially his amphibious training. Darby was selected and immediately
promoted and jumped in grade once again to Lt. Colonel. It was a breathtaking
ascent in rank, even during wartime for a well-connected officer, but the
job required a relatively senior field grade officer to command the necessary
authority – among friends and skeptics alike.

After serious
training under the direction of veteran British commandos, Darby’s men
spearheaded the North African landings and subsequent invasion of Sicily. Augmented by two
newly formed Ranger Battalions on September 9, 1943 Darby led the Allies onto
the Italian mainland at Salerno.
Four months later on 22 January 1944, Darby, now a full Colonel and regimental commander, led his
Rangers onto the Anzio beaches just south of Rome hoping to outflank the German defenses at Cassino. His men quickly
completed their missions in a textbook example of what the Rangers were created
to do.

On the night of
30-31 January 1944, everything fell apart at Cisterna, a village just a few
miles inland from bloody Anzio.
The Rangers, pressed into duty as light infantry, ran into crack German troops supported by heavy tanks. The lightly
armed Rangers were hopelessly overmatched; those who resisted were slaughtered.
Of the almost 800 men who infiltrated the enemy lines that night only six
returned. The rest were killed, captured, or simply disappeared. The Germans
paraded their prisoners in front of the Coliseum to make a historical point. Darby
was sent to America
to a desk job.

More than a year
later, in late March 1945, Darby was detailed to accompany a number of
high-ranking officers to Italy.
Ironies abound. Once more his contacts and being on the ground would make the
difference. He told a close friend that he would soon be back in action with
the 10th Mountain Division, under command of MG George Hays, under whom Darby had served who was then fighting
in the Pô Valley in northern Italy
as part of the US Fifth Army in the war’s closing campaign in Italy. Darby was back, General Hays was
delighted to see his one time aide and receptive to having him serve in
his division. The only question was in what role. Fate intervened soon
afterward.

On 22 April Brig.
General Robinson E. Duff, Assistant Division Commander, was seriously wounded
while aggressively leading Task Force Duff “like an anxious sheep dog.” Hays
was under intense pressure from IV Corps (Major General Willis D.
Crittenberger) headquarters to cross the Pô River and immediately requested
that Lt. General Lucian K. Truscott, Jr., now CG, Fifth Army – another lucky stroke
– assign Darby to replace Duff. Even before official approvals from the
necessary War Department officers were secured, on 24 April, Darby took over
Duff’s job, Task Force Darby was born with the mission of taking Verona

By
April 30, Darby had cleared Lake Garda and taken
Torbole. He was moving to his jeep when a single German round, fired from the heights
above Riva in a final gesture of defiance, smashed into the stone wharf which
led to the esplanade just 30 feet from where Darby and his companions were
standing. The explosion sprayed deadly shrapnel and debris all around. Darby fell without
uttering a sound and was carried into the hotel where a few minutes later, he
died. On May 2, 1945, all enemy forces in Italy surrendered unconditionally
and less than two weeks later William Orlando Darby was promoted to Brigadier
General, the only American officer posthumously promoted to general officer
rank during World War II.

Wednesday, September 11, 2013

That’s how 35-year
veteran and head of Army human resources Lt. General Timothy J. Maude began
every speech, always stressing his common bond with the ordinary soldier. That
bond became fixed on September 11, 2001, when Tim, 53, became the first and
only US
general killed-in-action in this century, the highest-ranking officer lost
since World War II, and first to die on sovereign American soil since Custer at
Little Big Horn. He is the top “fallen star” lost so far in the Global War on
Terrorism. He died instantly at “Ground Zero” at the Pentagon while conducting
a routine staff meeting in his office with top five aides. Also killed with him
was Sergeant Major Larry Strickland the personnel department’s senior NCO and a
soldier with almost 40 years of service.

There are several
professional avenues to high command in the US Army. Tim Maude’s path is not
among them. A one-time aspirant of the priesthood, the 19-year old kid from
Indianapolis enlisted in 1967 just ahead of his draft notice and was
commissioned out of OCS into the Adjutant General Corps, the branch responsible
for administrative matters and one of the first established in the Continental
Army in 1775. Tim served in Vietnam
at an infantry brigade HQ running the mail – ask any vet who’s the most
important guy at headquarters. Then he decided to remain in the Army, rising a
quarter century later to Deputy Chief of Staff for Personnel or, G-1, the top HR
job in the US Army in August 2000. Tim Maude, who began his military career as
a private and once considered the priesthood, received a third star - a rank
usually reserved for combat generals and described by his wife as a “miracle.”

Think of Tim’s job in
business terms. He was the top human resources officer of one of the largest
organizations in the world, employing more than 650,000 people, “hiring” close
to 80,000 new people every year, and administering thousands of medical, educational,
counseling, and other benefit programs and services, while subject to a huge
number of rules, regulations, and reporting responsibilities. Managing a budget
of $25 billion, with a large advertising and public relations commitment, Tim
faced the dawn of a new century with serious problems.

In a period of general
global peace - the long-heralded Pax
Americana – recruitment and retention were critical and under pressure. It
had become increasingly difficult throughout the 1990’s to attract qualified,
technically-competent people. The earlier advertising message, “be all
that you can be” had gradually lost its appeal, as both the traditional
and “new economy” (what they called social media just a decade ago) offered
ever expanding opportunities for America’s young people. In
response, Maude’s team crafted the very successful “Army of One"
recruiting campaign in early 2001 and by September the recruiting goals for the
year had already been achieved.

Army Chief of Staff
General Eric K. Shinseki had been very supportive of Maude’s other initiatives,
including more investment in the Internet, and the addition of the beret to the
regular uniform to bolster esprit d’corps. Tim also won high praise from
diverse (and often conflicting) groups for the sensitive way he handled the
difficult assignment to make sure the "don't ask, don't tell" policy
on gays in the military was implemented justly. That seems all the more
insightful based on recent political and legal developments.

By the turn of the
century, Tim had reached the pinnacle of his profession. His place as a
competent general officer in his beloved US Army would have been secure.
Destiny, however, had prepared an even more “noteworthy” place in the history
books. At 9:28 A.M. on that clear, September Tuesday morning, he was at his
desk in the Pentagon doing his job when that part of the building became a flaming
battlefield.

Whatever else may be
said, the coordinated September 11 surprise attacks on the homeland were among
the most successful ever conducted by our enemies. We should never forget that,
or underestimate them again. Any strategic concept that is founded on the idea
that global Jihadism is a passing phase is folly. It will be a permanent element of all long-range planning from now on. As a purely military
operation the 9/11 attacks were a textbook example of the staggering potential
of asymmetrical tactics employed against an overwhelmingly superior, but
conventionally-armed, organized, and oriented opponent. The selection of
targets that day – global economic icons, national military command center, and
defining political symbol – favored the technology, weapons and strategic goals
of the Sunni Al Qaeda terrorists. Soft,
symbolic, and difficult to protect. Only the bravery of the instant soldiers on
United Flight #93 prevented the blow against the last target that day, an attack
on the US Capitol or White House.

At the Pentagon, dozens
of people, including those in Tim Maude’s meeting, died instantly at their
posts. Many others were wounded or missing. In the days afterward, the smooth
machinery of succession was engaged, a credit to the personnel practices of a
strong, war-tested organization and its dedicated professional leadership. Tim’s
staff moved to the Hoffman Complex in Alexandria
under the deputy G-1 who survived. The enemy caused pain but did no lasting damage
to America’s
military or political strength. That became apparent almost immediately in Afghanistan where
horse-borne Special Forces operatives were soon on the ground helping the
warlords topple Mullah Omar’s regime. We struck back quickly and have inflicted
grievous harm on our enemies, including the death of the Al Qaeda leader, and we continue to strike them and their allies every
day. A large part of the legacy of Tim Maude was the readiness, quality, and
professional performance of the US Army that went to war on 9/11 and has
carried the battle since under our all-volunteer model.

After Tim’s remains
were recovered, he was buried at Arlington,
his grave carrying the legend, “He Took Care of Soldiers.” The team was
remembered in various ways. Buildings where they served and their favorite programs
were renamed in their honor. But the important inspiration and lessons to be
drawn from the death of this latest “fallen star” are not in the statistics, or
in a sentimental recollection. It is not a story of heroic death in battle, but
is more personal, and perhaps more directly relevant to the special nature of
the current war than any of the almost 225 fallen general officer stories in
our history.

The long war against global
Islamic Jihadism is different in at least one fundamental respect from all
previous American experience, except the Barbary Wars of the early 19th
century. In those cases, the ideology of our enemies defines every one of us as
a target blessed by Allah; anyone can be sitting at his desk in a routine staff
meeting, or on an airplane, in a school, at a wedding, in a subway - or watching
a marathon - and suddenly find herself an instant soldier on a battlefield.
Also a crime scene, but mainly a battlefield. Some are fated to suffer or die.
Some must flee and some become instant battlefield responders, but those whose
job it is to face those enemies every day, quietly and steadily, are heroes no
matter how they fall. That’s exactly what happened to Lieutenant General Timothy
J. Maude and all the many thousands of soldiers, sailors, police, firemen, and our
ordinary fellow citizens, who fell on September 11 and since.

Sunday, September 8, 2013

Frederick Walker Castle was literally born
into the U.S. Army on October 14, 1908 at FortMcKinley, Manila,
Philippines, during his
father’s first assignment after graduation from West Point.
Already voted by his father’s classmates – including future Air Force chief
Henry “Hap” Arnold - Class Boy of 1907 “Freddy” excelled at academics,
graduating at the top of his West Point class
(#7/241). In 1930 he was commissioned a 2nd Lieutenant in the prestigious
Corps of Engineers, but soon transferred to the Air Corps. After flight
training he reported for duty in October 1931 as a fighter pilot with the 1st
Pursuit Group. As the full force of the depression hit the Army, funds were
severely limited, flight assignments dwindled, promotions were frozen, and the
young pilot found himself assigned to the Civilian Conservation Corps. He grew
dissatisfied and bored and on February 19, 1934 resigned from the Regular Army.

Hap Arnold, Curtis Lemay, Fred Castle

Over the next eight years, Fred Castle built
a successful business career. Deeply involved in the manufacture of the Norden
bombsight - the precision instrument upon which the emerging doctrine of
Daylight Precision Bombing was largely based - Castle was clearly on the fast
track to senior management. War changed everything and after Pearl
Harbor he returned to active duty. At the beginning of 1942, BG
Ira C. Eaker was assembling a small planning staff that became the nucleus of VIII
Bomber Command in England
and eventually Eighth Air Force, the largest ever assembled. On April 15, the headquarters,
officially known as “Pinetree”, was established at the Wycombe
Abbey Girls' School located near RAF Bomber Command.

Wycombe Abbey Girls School

Castle’s assignment was to prepare for the
flood of airplanes and personnel that would soon begin arriving. In addition,
like many others at HQ, Castle flew missions and eventually pressed Eaker for a
combat assignment. An opportunity soon became available. The 94th Bombardment
Group had been particularly hard hit in the early days of the air war. Eaker
transferred the group commander and give the job to Castle. He flew the
dangerous missions and in a bid to gain trust ate his meals with his crews. In
mid April 1944, he was promoted to command of the 4th Combat Bomb Wing (CBW), the largest in the Eighth Air Force, comprising five groups, including his own 94th
BG.

94th Bomb Group Control Tower

Castle, only 36 years old, was promoted to Brig.
General on November 20, 1944, less than three years after returning to active
duty as a 1st Lieutenant. As one of the architects of American air power, his
place in the future independent Air Force was secure. In spite of his rank,
however, and the risks, he continued to fly. On December 16, 1944 the Germans
launched their last major offensive in the West, the “Battle of the Bulge.” By Christmas Eve, they
had come pretty close to their initial objectives. That night, the 3rd Air
Division, including the 4th CBW, assembled over England and dispatched 2,000 heavy bombers
escorted by 900 fighters and attacked the German airfields and communications facilities
west of the Rhine. Fred Castle’s B-17 was shot
down. Rather than jettison his bombs over civilians, he rode the stricken bomber to his death.

The Christmas Eve Mission, 1944

That night Hap Arnold wrote a letter to his
classmate and friend, Ben Castle, to tell him that his only son was missing and
presumed dead. For his heroism, Castle was awarded the Medal of Honor, becoming
the highest-ranking officer in the Eighth Air Force to receive thehonor, and the last of the unit’s seventeen
recipients. For decades afterward, and until they were old men, those who
formed that initial planning group at the girl’s school in England during those
grim days, held a reunion and drank a toast to Castle. "Aim at the highest ... at least you will soar."

Saturday, September 7, 2013

TET! That single word evokes strategic surprise and
the beginning of a long, painful period in American history. In the opening
hours of the Tet Counteroffensive (30 January 1968 - 1 April 1968), MACV
Headquarters in Saigon faced a number of immediate
priorities, but perhaps none was more important than ensuring the security of
the capital. By the early morning of 31 January 1968 neighborhoods in the heart
of the city and Tan Son Nut airbase were receiving heavy small arms and mortar
fire. The well-publicized targets, like the embassy compound, weren’t the
problem, in spite of the growing importance of the evening news version of the
war.

Facing the Americans and their Vietnamese allies in
the field were combat-hardened, regular units of the North Vietnamese People’s
Army and highly motivated Viet Cong cadre, a force totaling more than 25,000
men. General Nyugen Giap had reckoned the timing perfectly and achieved strategic
surprise. Lt. General Fred C. Weyland, commanding II Field Force, quickly
gained control and knew what to do. He turned to his deputy, Maj. Gen. Keith
Ware, and ordered him to assemble a task force headquarters and take
operational control of all U.S.
units in the Capital Military District. Weyland could not have found a better
man to defend Saigon.

Major General Keith Lincoln Ware (1915-1968) was a smart,
experienced, highly decorated, and well-respected combat officer. He began his military career as a 28-year old draftee graduating from
Infantry OCS in 1943. Assigned to the 15th Infantry Regiment, 3rd Infantry Division, he
participated in four combat invasions and numerous battles and skirmishes in North Africa, Sicily, Italy, France and Germany.
No infantry regiment spent more time in combat. While in command of 1st
Battalion on 26 December 1944 and attacking a fortified hill near Sigolsheim, France,
he was forced to pause because of heavy casualties. Seeing that his men needed
some inspiration, he advanced alone 150 yards beyond the most forward elements
of the battalion, and personally reconnoitered the enemy positions,
deliberately drawing fire to force the enemy to reveal their locations. He then
led a dozen men against those positions, knocking out numerous guns in close
combat. Half of his men, including Ware, were casualties, but he refused
medical attention until the hill was taken and secure. For this action he was
awarded the Medal of Honor. His postwar career filled in gaps in education,
higher command responsibility, and other line and staff skills, of an
increasingly global army.

Ware also had a unique appreciation for the
complicated interplay between events on the battlefield and the cultural climate
shaping the politics on the home front. His insight into this increasingly important
element of the American way of making war had been informed and deepened during
the two years (1964-1966) he served in the Pentagon as the Army’s director of Public
Affairs Office (PAO), where he stressed excellence in journalism. Perhaps better than anyone else at II Field Force HQ in Saigon, or even MACV, he knew that perceptions would be
just as important as battlefield developments over the next weeks in shaping
the “official” and lasting media reality. Less than 8 hours after the first
gunfire crackled through the Cholon district, Task Force WARE was operational.

Getting organized was the easy part. At first,
there were few combat units available, and those close by were poorly
positioned for a defensive mission. At the beginning of the battle, only a
single U.S.
infantry battalion and a dozen howitzers were operating nearby. For political
reasons, MACV boss General William Westmoreland, had kept major American units
outside Saigon and the other large cities
during the TET holiday.

Making a virtue of necessity, Ware’s initial plan
utilized Vietnamese government forces to conduct the main operations in Saigon, with the Americans playing a very close and
hand-on supporting role in the suburbs. The early fighting was intense, and
bloody, mostly house-to-house battles reminiscent of the WWII campaigns in
which Ware had earned his reputation. By February 18, Saigon
was considered secure and Task Force WARE was disbanded. It was a silent
victory; American popular opinion increasingly viewed TET as a defeat, even
though the enemy was totally shattered from a military point of view.

After the Battle of
Saigon, Keith Ware took command of the renowned 1st “Big Red One”
Infantry Division. By mid September 1968, the division was conducting
large-scale reconnaissance in force missions in northern BinhLongProvince.
On September 13, 1968, one of his brigades reported heavy contact with a
regular NVA regiment, and during the operation, Ware’s helicopter was downed by
enemy ground fire. He was killed along with all 9 passengers, including “King,” a German shepherd
and gift from the division’s recon outfit. A celebrated warrior and a potential
leader of a post-Vietnam army that would have benefited by his diverse experience and insights into media, Keith
Ware was the highest ranking Army officer and one of two division commanders among the eight generals killed in action during the Vietnam War. Keith Ware's name endures - more than most great heroes - because of the work he did in Public Relations and through the prestigious
Keith L. Ware Public Affairs Awards given each year to the best Army journalists.